Page 47 of Bond of Passion

Sure, he did. Tavin probably hadn’t killed—or tried to kill—any of them.

“Of course.” Her words sounded mousy and weak to her ears. She hoped Eidolon took it as sincerity, even though it was really guilt. Again. This time, it was guilt because not only was she deceiving Tavin, but she was also lying to Eidolon. She’d not only hurt Tavin when she killed him but also everyone at Underworld General. People who had provided her with an education, a job, and friends.

This was far more complicated than she’d thought it would be.

Eidolon left her with cleanup help, and she cursed her situation as she pawed through Tavin’s cupboards and fridge. He had a lot of canned food. Chili, soup, and baked beans. She found a can of beef stew and set it next to the stove so she could heat it when he woke. Then she joined the half-dozen UG employees who had come to help clean up the place.

It was grim work, scraping up the greasy stains left by the demons that had disintegrated and dragging out the bodies of the two males who hadn’t. Those got piled next to the house with a couple of others from Sin’s battle in the yard and covered with a tarp. Tavin would have to deal with that after he woke up.

Four hours later, as the UG helpers were leaving, Wraith arrived. Tavin didn’t even move when Eidolon’s brother sat next to him on the mattress and channeled energy into Tavin’s head. If anything, Tavin relaxed even more.

She marveled at the differences between Eidolon and Wraith, wondering how they could be so unalike. With his shoulder-length blond hair and blue eyes, Wraith was as dissimilar from Eidolon as a Neethul was from a Neebless. But the differences only began with their appearances. Where Eidolon was reserved, thoughtful, and serious, Wraith was outgoing, unpredictable, and unfiltered. And where had he gotten those fangs?

Figuring it would be rude to ask, she kept her mouth shut, and once Wraith took off, she finished scrubbing the floors and cabinets. No amount of scrubbing could get rid of the bloodstains on the walls, but she did manage to scour off a lot of paint.

When she’d done everything she could, she showered and dressed in one of Tavin’s black Pink Floyd T-shirts and a pair of cinched-to-the-max boxers she’d scrounged from a drawer. Now, she was tidying up and thinking of calling Ronnie or Eileen. Her friends must be wondering what was going on. No doubt the Underworld General rumor mill was churning out a dozen different stories.

As she stood to dump gross, blood-tinted water out of a scrub bucket, a rumbling groan came from the bedroom.

“Tavin?” She plunked the bucket into the sink and hurried in to find him sitting up, blinking groggily. “Hey, how are you feeling?”

He stared blankly at her, not seeming to understand the question.

“Are you hungry?”

He swallowed. Licked his lips. Blinked. When his lids lifted, the haze in his blue eyes had dissipated a little. “St-starving.”

“Okay, just a second.” She hurried into the kitchen and dumped the stew into a bowl before popping it into the microwave. She gave it two minutes and then took the steaming meal to Tavin, who was still sitting in the bed, disoriented and swaying.

His gaze was glued to the bowl as she crossed the room. He really was starving. Eidolon had said he’d be hungry, but she wasn’t prepared for how he practically attacked the food, shoveling it into his mouth so fast she didn’t know when he took the time to breathe.

Before he licked the thing clean, she took the empty bowl and hurried to the kitchen to make another can of food, a hearty steak chili he ate as quickly as he had the stew. This time though, he set the bowl aside instead of letting her take it for another round.

“How long have I been out?” he asked in a voice sounding as if it had been scraped across Gargantua scales.

She glanced at the clock next to the bed as she took his bowl. “About seven hours.”

“And you’ve been here the whole time?”

She nodded. “How much do you remember?”

A shudder wracked his big body. The sheet had fallen to his waist, revealing bruising and deep maroon scars across his entire torso. Dried blood streaked his skin and matted the hair on his forehead.

“Too much.” His haunted gaze focused on the bathroom. “I need to shower. See if all my parts are still attached.” He punched his fists into the mattress and pushed to his feet, but before he could take a single step, he stumbled. In a flash and without thinking, she had him by the elbow.

“I got you,” she said, her instinct to help overriding any joy she thought she might have felt if he’d fallen on his ass.

His tight, bare ass.

He jerked his arm out of her grip. “I’m fine.” He staggered toward the bathroom, his body stiff, his jaw clenched as if every step was agony.

“Tavin, let me help—”

“I said, I’m fine.” His voice was clipped, gruff, and full of shit.

“You’re hardly fine,” she snapped. Helga, one of her teachers at nursing school, had warned the class that medical professionals were the worst patients, and Tavin was proving that to be true. But she had a feeling he’d be a pain in the ass even if he weren’t a paramedic. “But go ahead and fall on your face. You can beg me for help from the floor.”

Ignoring her, he took three more steps, and as his right foot came down for the fourth step, his leg gave out. He lurched against the wall, barely catching himself before he went down.